Cinderella and the Sheikh

chapter Seven



Rasyn watched as Libby nearly walked into the backside of a donkey. She hadn't quite gotten used to her lack of peripheral vision in the headscarf that covered her auburn hair. It was supposed to make her blend in, just as his worn robe and knitted taguia hat made him into just another shopper, but the brown scarf emphasized the delicate lightness of her skin and made her green eyes gleam nearly turquoise. He maneuvered her through the maze of corridors crowded with beasts and bodies and gaudy soft drink signs, a place where the ancient and modern butted heads.

He still needed her. Uncle Anwar hadn't made Imaran the heir yet, and his blood tests were getting worse, the doctor said. Things were becoming urgent. If Anwar didn’t name his successor soon, the country was at risk.

It was unfortunate she hadn't agreed to accompany him into the desert. If he were away from the palace, no doubt someone would feel free to inform Anwar of Libby's accident and what it had cost Abbas.

But his charm hadn't failed him yet. An opportunity would come. He wouldn't let it pass. For the good of Abbas, he could not.

"What happened in that shop back there?" She pointed at the traditional robe he had just purchased for her and was carrying in a not-so-traditional plastic bag. "I wanted the green robe, but you let him sell you the purple one instead. It wasn't like you. You always get what you want."

"Was your heart set on the green one?" He raised his voice slightly, to be heard over the buzz of shoppers and merchants who haggled all around them, theatrically pretending offence at the terrible high prices or the insulting low offers.

"I’m a green-eyed redhead. It would have looked good on me."

"Are there any green rooms at Hotel Scheherazade?" he asked.

"Of course there are..." Her words trailed off. "Come to think of it, no."

"Green is a sacred color to some Muslims."

"Ah." She nodded. "And I'm a Westerner."

"It is probably better if you do not wear green."

A stray strand of hair had escaped her hijab and was curling prettily across her cheek. The law didn’t require her to wear the scarf, but that fire-tinged hair would have attracted attention Rasyn didn't want. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to tuck that lock of hair back under her scarf, not to hide it, but as an excuse to touch her soft cheek. Unfortunately, not even husbands and wives showed that much public affection in Abbas. Not in the middle of a crowded market.

For an instant, he missed New York.

She sighed. "Good thing I don't live here. I'd never learn all the customs."

Why did she think that? Her looks had been what had caught his eye, but she was smart. She'd proven it. "You will have to," he said. "We will visit often."

Libby froze, nearly bumping into the owner of a fabric store displaying a fine scarlet silk to a bare-headed woman in Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a blue t-shirt. "You don’t still think that I'm going to marry you. Can't you see it would be a disaster? The Prince of Damali probably wants me dead."

"My love—"

Libby swore. "For the good of your country, you've got to..." Her voice trailed off, the anger fading. She raised a hand to point at a wall. "What is that?"

Rasyn glanced at where she indicated, not bothering to tell her that pointing was considered rude in his culture. Dozens of eight-by-twelve posters of a dark-skinned man in an impeccable suit and red-checked headscarf covered the wall she indicated. There were other posters; of Uncle Anwar, and of Imaran.

Rasyn had seen the poster many times before and always had the same reaction: the man's teeth were too white, his hair too shiny. No one was that perfect. It wasn't possible. Obviously, this was not a man to be trusted.

"That's you." Libby voice was filled with awe.

"No," he said. "That's Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar."

"Do you— I mean, do you think it makes Sheikh Rasyn feel odd to see that?"

Rasyn shrugged. "I suppose it means people like him."

Libby stared at the poster, her head cocked to one side in deep contemplation. "It would make me feel weird to have pictures of myself everywhere. Just because people do this doesn't mean they know you. How can they like you if they don’t know you?"

Rasyn's throat went dry. He'd tried to talk to Imaran about it once. Imaran had just complained that there were fewer posters of him. When he'd mentioned it to his uncle, he'd gotten a lecture on maintaining the goodwill of the people.

No one had understood. But this woman seemed to. "Perhaps you are right," he said.

She looked at him, her eyes soft with sympathy. "There are more posters of Sheikh Rasyn than the others. He's popular."

"I cannot imagine why. His cousin is more qualified to be prince." The words had slipped out, perhaps because it was easier to talk about 'Sheikh Rasyn' than himself.

"But Sheikh Imaran seems less..." She struggled for words. "Kind."

They were on dangerous ground, Rasyn knew. But it was a relief to talk about this. "He is driven to do the best for this country. If that has made him harsh, it is a sacrifice he has made. One of many. Did you know that he spent the last three years defending the border with Jalaal? He is the best choice."

"I don't know..." Libby's words trailed off as she stared at the posters.

Rasyn pulled a few centimes from his pocket and hailed a turbaned man in a robe dusty below the knee, pushing a cart piled with ruby-colored pomegranates.

Libby was licking juice from her lips with a red-stained tongue, making a satisfied 'mmm' sound that warmed his belly when an enthusiastic beat echoed off the vaulted souk roof.

"What is it?" she asked.

He wasn't about to give up the opportunity to show her another of the beauties of his country. "Do you want to go find out?"

They followed the sound through the twisting passages, finally coming to an open space where a circle of people clapped their hands in a pulsing rhythm. Rasyn elbowed his way into the circle, guiding Libby to stand in front of him.

In the open area stood two young men in faded jeans, grinning from ear to ear. Under one arm, each of them had a doumbek drum and together, they pounded out a beat that reverberated in Rasyn's chest. They riffed off each other, pretending to compete to see who could beat out the most intricate sequence, then letting out a whoop before returning to playing in unison.

They weren't the main attraction. Rasyn watched Libby's eyes widen as she watched the woman with lemon blonde hair dancing in the circle. In a black dress sequined with gold that covered her from neck to ankle, the woman moved with an athletic grace that simmered with the promise of sensuality. The coins on the scarf tied around her waist tinkled as she circled her hips to the beat.

Libby clapped and shouted her appreciation, her own hips mimicking the dance.

The dancer must have noticed, too—she grabbed both Libby's wrists and pulled her into the ring. The dancer pulled off her hip scarf with a jangle and quickly tied it around Libby's waist. The audience shouted their encouragement as Libby attempted to follow the movements that the dancer showed her. Libby fumbled and laughed her way through it.

Rasyn’s discomfort grew at her inappropriate behavior. She had no grace and less dignity. She thought that 'kindness' was the greatest value for a ruler? Common—that was the only word for her. She would never understand why Imaran had to be on the throne.

He watched as Libby began to get used to the dance's movement and shook her hips with something like style. The man next to Rasyn turned to his companion. "I think the green eyed one would dance better in bed."

Before he gave it a thought, Rasyn found himself striding into the circle and catching Libby's wrist in his hand. She gazed up at him, a puzzled look in her eye.

"Come." He tugged her away, through the crowd that parted for them.

He felt dozens of male eyes, darkened with desire, followed the sway of her backside in the hip scarf as she returned to him.

Despite his annoyance, a fierce, protective desire threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to kiss her pomegranate-stained lips, to show the world she belonged to him. But he couldn't. In Abbas, that would be so shocking that he'd likely get arrested for indecency.

As they walked away, he rested his palm against the heat of Libby's lower back, shooting a killing look over his shoulder in case anyone should be watching too closely.

A tiny, dark alleyway caught his eye. He pulled her into it.

"Why did you allow that? You must not humiliate yourself that way."

She wrenched her wrist from him. "You're the only one humiliated. Why is it embarrassing to have fun in public?"

"Those people saw parts of you that should remain secret."

She made a show of looking down at her clothes. "I'm covered from head to foot, so I know you're not talking about my body. Do you mean my feelings?"

A perfect version of himself smirked at him from over her shoulder. Even in the darkest alley, he couldn't escape those damned posters. "Do you think Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar is permitted to express himself freely?"

"He should be," she said. "You should be. I guess you aren't, not when you have to disguise yourself just to go to the market."

Rasyn felt his anger drain away, replaced by awareness that the alley had barely enough space for the two of them, forcing him to press himself against her, her softness melting into his hard body.

The thrill of risk zinging up his spine, he lowered his mouth to hers. Visions of her gyrating hips had him grinding his own into her. The air, fragrant with dust and spices, wasn't as exotic as Libby's own soap-scented skin. She responded wildly, as if the dance had peaked her own desire, welcoming his tongue with her own. He teased and tasted her, stoking the fire between them until he thought he would lose control and risk making love to her there, with the rest of the world only steps away.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, stroking his hands down her soft cheeks. This was his chance.

"Libby, would you like to see the desert tomorrow? I want to show you how the stars shine far from the city lights." His voice was so raspy with lust that he barely recognized it.

She paused, her whole body going tense. He knew what was going through her mind. She'd said no before. There was no way she should give in to him now.

She smoothed his robe across his chest, swiping at some imaginary dust. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt the heat of her fingers through the fabric as if they were on his bare skin instead. After a moment, she sighed and gave him a smile tinged by irony, as if she recognized she was doing the wrong thing. "I'd like that."

Relief washed over him. It fit his plans perfectly.